Wifely Duties
by Riene
Summary: Sometimes a wife's duty is to take care of her husband's needs...whether he realizes it or not. Erik/Christine, complete.


**A/N—** Inspired by Tumblr Kissing Prompt #35 A Kiss To Gain Something

* * *

Wifely Duties  
2018 Riene  
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She rolled over and opened bleary eyes to stare at the wall. Only darkness met her tired gaze; the candle had guttered hours ago. Christine extended one foot cautiously, finding a cold smooth sheet beside her, but she'd already known the answer. There was no slight indentation from a thin body, no shallow breathing, no sense of any presence beside her.

He hadn't come to bed, again.

She knew it was not that he was avoiding her. Indeed, lying beside his wife, gathering her into his arms and pressing her to the length of his long wiry body brought Erik joy. His frame was not quite as bony as it had been in the time before their marriage; Christine had managed to cajole him into eating more than once a day and he now resembled a terribly thin man more than a skeleton. Actually sleeping, though, was still very hard for him, for even in her arms her husband could not escape the nightmares that plagued him.

Still, this absence was not so much a refusal to come to bed as much as it was an obsession.

* * *

"I will marry you."

Erik reeled back, shock quickly turning to anger. He'd been utterly unprepared for her arrival, had thought to never see her dark blue eyes gazing calmly at him, her rich brown curls framing her oval face, that she would ever again sit in his parlor, slim hands holding the cup of tea he had somehow managed to remember to offer.

She had missed the music, she explained. Her last contact with her father and her past, her life in the Opera House. It had been made quite clear to her that there was a choice, and only one acceptable path for the life of a vicomtesse.

Christine had turned her back on it.

Erik had, characteristically, reacted with fury. He would not be a substitute, a replacement for that which she really wanted. He was unlovable, no one had ever chosen him, wanted him; it was simply impossible to believe. She'd kissed him only out of pity, she'd said so, calling him a "pitiful creature of darkness." Erik remembered all too well, even through the rage and despair that clouded the memories of that horrific evening.

He hadn't believed her all the way up to the ceremony itself, before the officer of the _mairie_ , even as they signed their names on the official document, even as they received the little family book, even as they returned to the underground house. It was surely some colossal joke, the universe waiting, conspiring to dangle the possibility of happiness and hope before his eyes, only to rip it away in torment.

But he'd married her, binding her to him for eternity. She'd offered, and he was not going to allow her to renege on her bargain.

Christine had surprised him, though. She'd made only four demands. There would be a real house with a garden. She would not live beneath the Opera for the rest of her life. She would give him free rein to find the location, even design the house, but it would be above ground. Erik had acquiesced, his agile mind already mulling the possibilities of architecture and security, a home close enough to the Opera but far enough for privacy.

Her next demand at shocked him into stillness. Christine expected a real marriage, not a marriage in name only. They would occupy the same room, the same bed. He'd stared at her in disbelief, unable to comprehend that such a thing might occur.

Erik proved to be a shy husband, reluctant to assert his needs or wants, but once convinced Christine reciprocated the idea he was a more than willing participant. Always frighteningly quick to observe and learn, Erik threw his considerable ability into mastering this new art, cataloging her reactions to every touch, every action, and gradually introducing new variations based on his years of observing others and an extensive library of books. They had proven to be...more than compatible in that respect.

No, tonight's issue certainly did not stem from an avoidance of the marriage bed, but from her two final conditions. She tied the sash to her quilted wrapper, slid feet into padded slippers, and went in search of her husband.

* * *

Erik hunched over the keyboard, pristine white shirt cuffs turned back and fingers stained with ink. Creamy paper, thick and overly large, lay scattered across the lid of the Bӧsendorfer, or lay crumpled upon the floor. Though he rarely wore the mask around their home, Erik had retained the wig from vanity. He'd discarded it at some point tonight, and the few remaining strands of iron-grey hair were disheveled from agitated fingers. It was her fault, really.

For Christine had insisted that he cease his torment of the management and instead become a proper patron of the arts. He could retain his box, manage her career, and exert his influence in other ways, one of which was that he seek an avenue in which to publish his music.

Thus his debut concerto, aria, and sonatas had to be perfect.

It was all to showcase his skills as a composer, and his beloved wife's skill as a singer. No one knew Christine's voice as well as he, the crystalline purity of the high notes, the sweet power of the lower range, her breath control, her luminous vibrato, her clarity of pronunciation, her ability to wring emotion from the harshest critic and cynical listener. Erik would allow nothing short of perfection, and was driving himself into obsession.

Behind him the fire lay in ash-furred embers, the room now cold and illumined only by the flickering candles. It was terribly bad for his eyes, strained from years of darkness and reading, and for his chest, the persistent cough from the damp and dust that never seemed to improve for long. He needed sleep, and as his wife, it was Christine's duty to see to it he rested.

His cat-like hearing had detected her standing in the shadows of the hallway, and he turned, exhausted golden eyes piercing the gloom. "Why are you out of bed?" he snapped. "This cold air is not good for your throat!"

She came in to the room, running a hand along his shoulders and dropping a kiss on his thin hair. "Nor is it good for your health, my love," she murmured.

"I am fine. The sonata is not," he snapped. "Go, and let me work in peace."

Christine eyed him with fond annoyance. "In a minute." She ran her hands along his shoulders, gently kneading them. "I promise. Let me help you relax a moment before I go."

He made a noise in response, somewhere between acquiescence and an exasperated snort, but leaned back into her touch, rolling his head, easing muscles gone stiff from his poor posture and long hours. "You should take a break," she said softly, her breath tickling his ear, and Erik twisted, looking up at her suspiciously.

Christine's hands slid around to his chest, sliding down his hard ribcage, tight with muscle and unforgivingly bony, letting her nails graze his skin on the way back up. Erik shuddered slightly under her hands and Christine allowed herself a wicked grin. Arousing him could certainly motivate him to come back to bed and rest, once worn out.

She leaned down and kissed the top of his head again, trailing her lips down his bare, unmasked face, and traced the curve of his ear with her tongue. Erik's hands faltered slightly on the keyboard but continued playing. He had realized her intent and was refusing to cooperate. Well, she had yet to lose this game and had no intention on ceding him a victory tonight.

"The sonata is perfect; you needn't add anything more to it," she breathed in his ear, and Erik shivered, but scribbled a furious note on the draft before him. Christine loosened her wrapper and leaned forward, removing the cravat and unbuttoning his collar.

Warm soft breasts pressed against the back of his scalp. The minx; she was deliberately teasing him. But those hands, those small slim hands, they would be the death of him. Already he could feel the flush of blood flow, thickening and tightening, a tension deep in his groin. Biting the inside of his lip, he soldiered on...though he might have moved his arms just a fraction wider apart from his body.

Christine continued to unbutton his shirt, pushing the fine lawn aside and caressing downwards, drawing her nails across the planes of his stomach and feeling him twitch beneath her touch. His nipples were pebbled hard from the chill air and she swirled fingers around them, eliciting a sharp gasp. Erik clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching in his cheek, vowing silently that she would get no more reaction from him.

She withdrew from his shirt and dug thumbs into his back muscles, tight and stiff from hours at the keyboard, working out the knots as he groaned in pleasure, rising to his neck, and then stroking his hair with the lightest soothing brush of her fingertips. Erik was helpless under her assault, aching for her touch, years of deprivation not yet slaked in their months of marriage. He was hers to cherish and protect, and she would see to it he rested tonight.

After some exertion first, of course.

Her husband had given up any pretense of working, hands resting limply on the keyboard as she pushed the shirt down his shoulders, baring them to her teeth. She hummed, pleased to have been the victor in this tryst, and moved to stand between his legs, stroking his bared chest with feather-light, swirling touches.

Erik caught her around the waist, pulling her to him, leaning his ruined face against her soft breasts. He was achingly hard but she had afforded him no relief. Well, two could play this game.

He loosened the sash to her wrapper and swiftly pulled the laces of her nightgown apart, one hand deftly stroking the satiny skin of her ivory breast, tweaking the hard nipple. His thin lips closed over the other, suckling and swirling his tongue around the crinkled aureole, rewarded by her soft gasp and moan. Christine's hands rested on his neck for balance as her knees grew weak at his onslaught and he smiled to himself.

She was unprepared as he lifted her in his arms, positioning her on the curve of the piano, rucking the nightgown up around her bare hips. She was sweetly naked beneath, and he reveled in the knowledge that no one else had heard her voice gasp his name quite in the way she did, as he swept long cool fingers up her quivering thighs.

He knelt before her, large hands cradling her hips and pulling her closer so that her feet rested on his shoulders, sliding past and falling open before his rapacious gaze. Christine shuddered under his kisses, his lips trailing up one thigh and then the other. He blew gently on her wet curls and laughed under his breath as she gasped. "Erik... _please!_ " pulling his hair as she drew his head closer.

Sometimes he didn't mind his lack of a nose.

She was a goddess, and he her acolyte. He worshiped her with his tongue, swirling around her wet heat, teasing and flicking the little nub, golden eyes watching her every reaction. Erik placed one hand on her belly, holding her in place, knowing a little restraint enhanced the experience. He would not take her there, not yet, but he was painfully aroused, straining against the tight uncomfortable fabric of his trousers.

It was time.

Erik rose from the floor and swept her into his arms, his thin lips claiming hers as he carried her down the hallway toward their shared bedroom. She clutched his neck, marveling again at how such a slim man could be so strong, and stroked his chest, teasing circles against his sensitive skin. He dropped her on the bed, toeing off his shoes, as she drew him down beside her.

He grabbed her hand and pulled it down to where proof of his need for her throbbed and pulsed. She batted his hand away and unfastened his trousers, sliding a hand inside and grasping his hard length. Erik threw back his head and inhaled sharply, bare chest sweating even in the cool air of the underground house, as she stroked and squeezed him, her desire growing as his hips rose to meet her tight grasp.

They had learned the art of pleasure together, both inexperienced but trusting in the other. There were times Erik preferred her above him, pulling her astride his scarred body. He would pull the ribbon from her hair, coffee-colored curls curtaining them, watching as his hands roamed her smooth skin, allowing her to set the pace, her hands braced on his chest. her head thrown back, arching in ecstasy, tightening around him.

Tonight would not be one of those nights. With a growl he flipped and pinned her underneath him, tugging down his trousers and settling himself between the soft thighs that rose around his bony hips, cradling him snugly against her. His swollen tip brushed her entrance and Christine whimpered, sliding her hand between their bodies and adjusting his angle. Erik stared down at her, golden eyes regarding her with smoldering desire, then buried himself deeply into her tight wet heat, wrapping both arms around her.

She met his thrusts as he withdrew almost completely and slid back in, a smooth motion impaling them in a tightening cloud of pleasure. Erik held himself on the ragged edge of control until she was shaking, crying his name in her glorious voice, and then he followed her over the edge, a powerful climax rippling through his lean frame, a hoarse cry torn from his lips.

They clung tightly to each other, riding out their mutual pleasure, finally rolling sideways, tangled sheets and clothing twisted around their bodies.

"I love you, so much," she whispered, drowsy and content. "Stay with me."

Sleep was already clouding his mind, exhausted and sated with pleasure. Erik's lips brushed her temple. "As you wish." They adjusted their clothing, and Erik pulled the blankets warmly around them, giving himself over to sleep.

The sonata would be there tomorrow.


End file.
